


Arms Wide Open

by TheAudity



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e05 Escape From the Happy Place, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Spectacular Summer of Shame, creed concert, teenage Eliot makes poor life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25640680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAudity/pseuds/TheAudity
Summary: The front door of the Cottage spilled open to the most tragic cacophony of power chords and mumbling to ever grace Eliot’s ears. Charlton actually yelped, much to his amusement. For all his awkward seriousness, it was nice to see that he recognized terrible music when he heard it.In which Eliot goes to a Creed concert, and has no pants. Written for Eliot Waugh's Spectacular Summer of Shame.
Relationships: Eliot Waugh/Original Character(s), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16
Collections: Eliot Waugh's Spectacular Summer of Shame





	Arms Wide Open

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/gifts).



> This fic is a gift for my friend and co-moderator, Rubick, who was sad to see that no one had written about Eliot going to a Creed concert for this event. I churned this out in 24 hours for ya, nerd. Enjoy!
> 
> If you would like more information about the "underage" archive warning, please see the end notes. Please keep in mind, this fic is still rated Teen, and no explicit content actually occurs.

\--x--

The front door of the Cottage spilled open to the most tragic cacophony of power chords and mumbling to ever grace Eliot’s ears. Charlton actually yelped, much to his amusement. For all his awkward seriousness, it was nice to see that he recognized terrible music when he heard it.

“What in Umber’s name is this...noise?” The man shouted over the crowd. Eliot couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. Memory or not, Charlton in his Renaissance Faire garb, all Fillorian brocade and tights, at a shitty 2009 rock concert was a sight to behold. He draped an arm over the other man’s shoulders, a proverbial wing to be guided under as he shared this hellish concert experience with him on their road trip of trauma and shame.

“That, my dear Charlton, is the dulcet tones of what constituted as music in the mid 2000s. Isn’t it glorious?” Eliot chuckled, and drew Charlton further into the fray. To his left, a memory of Penny scoffed at the crowd. Not Penny looked him head in the eye and said “I don’t care that I’m not real, you should be ashamed of yourself for ever coming to a fucking Creed concert and I swear to god I will never let you live this down.” to which he simply replied, “noted.” To his right, a memory of Quentin was- oh no, he was getting into it.

“Quentin,” he called. “Quentin, what are you doing?” He looked at the memory of his friend, his partner, the source of all that was currently wrong in the world up and down and realized that in his grey tee-shirt, black flannel jacket, and ill-fitting jeans, he fit in here to a disturbing degree. Quentin blinked at him, his big brown eyes adorable even in their confusion.

“What?” he whined. “It’s catchy, what’s the problem?” All Eliot could do was stare at the man who he had lived with for fifty years, a man who he now had to seriously consider disowning, and groan. Charlton’s own groan came shortly after.

“The problem is that this is objectively the worst music festival I’ve ever attended, including the centennial celebration of the shrieking shells.” He replied, indignant. Undoubtedly the real Quentin would have a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue about such a horrible sounding festival, regarding whether the talking clams were sentient or simply enchanted, and if their songs were a naturally occurring phenomena or if they were just such perfectionists that they only sang every century. Fortunately, this wasn’t the real Quentin, so he just shrugged and went back to nodding along with the _terrible_ melodic musings happening on stage.

Eliot shrugged at Charlton, a halfhearted _‘what can you do?’_ sort of gesture, and the pair continued on. Despite their new location being an outdoor amphitheater, one named after a cell phone company or a mortgage broker or some other nonsense, the space was actually a bit claustrophobic. The joys of being in the pavilion, and not on the lawn, he presumed. Still, the memories were starting to feel clearer, and as his gaze passed over the sea of trucker hats and terrible graphic tees, he found his target; Just fifty feet ahead of them now was a young Eliot, just a few months shy of being seventeen and still an absolute style disaster. Only, instead of hand-me-down work shirts and too-short jeans, the Eliot before him was wearing enough eyeliner that he looked more raccoon than human, and had on the most ridiculous black shirt to ever come out of a Hot Topic clearance bin, made only worse by his young hands having hacked the shirt apart and reassembled it using safety pins. It would have been a great look to see a Ramones tribute band, in retrospect, but at this moment Eliot couldn’t decide if the work shirts would have been better or worse. At sixteen, the only thing worse than his lack of taste in clothes had been his lack of taste in men. Lo and behold, evidence of his teenage preferences in men were also present, in the form of the tall, extremely generic jock his young self was in the middle of an intense game of tonsil hockey with. He was a carbon copy of half the guys on his high school football team, with his clipped haircut and his defined biceps, and he was a breathtaking reminder of what a _fucking cliche_ he’d been as a teen.

“Who’s that?” Charlton asked, his eyebrow raising slightly in- interest? Huh, so maybe he wasn’t the only cliche in his head.

“I think his name was Scott? Or maybe Dalton, Honestly I don’t remember.” He rushed the last few words, and Quentin popped back up to lean into his side. “I can see why, you’re really not into that are you?” He smirked as he watched the display, and; alright, Eliot could give him that one. The kiss was, objectively speaking, terrible. There was way too much teeth, and his young self had no idea where he should put his hands or what angle he should hold his head at, frankly the whole thing was uncomfortable to watch.

“Shut up,” he laughed, shoving Quentin playfully, “I hadn’t had many chances to practice, my technique was still off.” And oh _god_ was it off. Charlton leaned in closer on his other side, invading his personal space in a way that was so distinctly small-town Fillorian he couldn’t even be mad. “So he was your date, and you don’t remember his name?” He asked incredulously.

“I wasn’t interested in his name, I was interested in his dick, keep up Charlton.” He replied dismissively, before turning his attention back to Quentin, who from the corner of his eye appeared to be- “Are you- are you dancing to this noise?”

He was shocked and appalled, and Quentin answered his betrayal by rolling his eyes at Eliot like the brat he was. “I don’t dance, Eliot.” he retorted. And a few decades of standing at the sidelines of various harvest festivals and village weddings, laughing but refusing to step into the fray of the folk dances he could never quite master did support that. So, fair. He was just bobbing in place. Definitely not dancing, but still unforgivable.

Eliot paused, staring him down for a spell before replying with a click of his tongue. “I don’t even recognize you anymore, go stand in the corner and think about what you’ve done.”

The human disaster before him rolled his eyes, and Eliot couldn’t help the fondness that flooded his chest, even if he was very seriously considering whether or not Quentin was worth his absolutely abysmal taste. “Yeah yeah, I’ll be back in five with drinks.” He finished, before vanishing into the crowd.

Charlton leaned in again, whispering “You do know they’re not real drinks, right?”

“Hasn’t stopped any of us yet.” Eliot countered. It really hadn’t, especially since it seemed that he could still get drunk, so long as he thought about it hard enough. He suspected he could achieve the same results even without alcohol, mind over matter and all that, but hadn’t tested that theory yet. Charlton rolled his eyes, but there was no venom to it. For a moment, Eliot felt like he could pretend that this was all normal. That he was outside of his head, with Quentin and Penny, and even Charlton despite his ridiculous attire, were all ironically enjoying a terrible concert and he and Penny would bond over teasing Quentin for his terrible taste in music, and then once Quentin was sufficiently worked up he could kiss him and make it better and-

Anyways he was torn from his reverie when his eyes settled back on his young self, his date’s tongue firmly planted down his throat. Right, eyeliner, trauma, and terrible dates.

Eliot still wasn’t entirely certain how the door out of his mind was supposed to appear. Did he have to actively confront some part of his memory, or was his presence enough to trigger the exit? Did it matter if he narrated the event, or could he just silently observe? Neither he nor Charlton knew for sure, but Eliot chose to describe each scene for Charlton anyways. If nothing else, it was something to do. “So, Scott- or maybe it was Chad- Brian?” he waved the thought off. “Whatever, I met him at a bar. Technically, I wasn't supposed to be _in_ said bar, but what can I say, I bat my pretty lashes and the bouncer took pity on me and ignored how terrible my fake ID was. It’s not like underage drinking would be the worst thing that town ignored. Where was I going with this? Right, so I went in, drank some truly awful beer, and met Brett-”

“You really can’t remember his name” Charlton interrupted. He had been starting, dumbfounded and incredulous through most of Eliot’s monologue, and Eliot would be lying if he said he wasn’t thriving on the attention. He sighed.

“I really can’t-oh, thank you Quentin- “ He nodded as the memory of his second best friend returned, overpriced drinks in cheap plastic cups at hand. Quentin smiled, raised his own cup in cheers, and kept walking further into the crowd of concert goers waving lighters to the sounds of Arms Wide Open or literally any other song, it didn’t matter they all sounded the same, and- “oh, no, don’t join the-fuck, he’s going into the pit, I can’t believe I’m in love with that idiot.” He laughed, more at himself than the idiot in question, his back vanishing in the fray.

“You are?”

“I’m what?” He spun about , focusing back on Charlton, then back on where his teenage self was flirting with his date, laughing at something likely terribly unfunny he had said, while his date slipped a hand into the back pocket of Eliot’s jeans, giving his ass a firm squeeze. His young self squirmed, and he remembered just why that had become a favorite move of his in undergrad. “Oh, forget about that, Anyways, Derek was passing through town on his way to Noblesville, from Bloomington. He was a student at Indiana University, studying finance, and to small town me who’d hardly ever been fifteen miles outside of Whiteland, that was _incredibly_ dreamy. So he said he was going to a Creed concert, and of course I said _‘oh no way, I love Creed, they’re the best!’_ despite having no idea who the fuck they were. But, lying to impress boys is just the way of life, isn’t it Charlton?”

His companion blinked at him slowly. “I think you and I have led very different lives.”

Eliot scoffed, and downed his drink in one go. The coke meant he could almost ignore just how cheap the rum was. It was far from a passable drink, but hey, alcohol was alcohol. “So anyway, we stayed out way too late, made out in the alley behind the bar, and he tells me he has a second ticket to the show, because his roommate got sick and couldn’t make it or something, I was only half listening to be honest. Now, to little baby me, the majestic hills of Noblesville were too good to pass up, so of _course_ I said _‘yes I totally want to go with you’_ . Then I went home, climbed in the window to my room. The next morning I lied to my parents about forgetting about a science project and needing to spend the weekend at Taylor’s, he was my best friend, to work on it. My dad was too hungover to argue and my mom wasn’t willing to risk a fight, so it was easy to get out. _Then_ I actually looked up the band, went thrifting in hopes of finding something that would let me pretend to be a numetal fan, came out looking way more punk which honestly, is a much better look for me but that’s besides the point, and Bradley and I began our road trip that afternoon.”

And it had been a nice drive up. They actually had a fair bit in common, having both been raised on farms and both hating every second of it. The trip had been a classic exercise on trauma bonding and shitty fast food burgers, and Eliot had felt more alive than he had in months that night. Charlton hummed, taking note of how the gleam in his young self’s eye was visible even from here, how he flushed under the attention of his date. “Other than the music being...objectively not music, this memory doesn’t seem terrible so far.”

“Oh, it really wasn’t, not this part at least.” He nodded in agreement. “But it had been a pretty good day at this point. Anyways, calling it a road trip might be an overstatement, we only drove an hour or so, then we got to the motel to...unpack. Kyle was a gracious host, and a halfway decent kisser-”

Penny appeared seemingly out of nowhere to interrupt him. “Really? I don’t see it.”He scoffed. “You two look like two fish fighting for dominance, it’s embarrassing man.” Eliot shoved him, less playfully than he had shoved Quentin earlier. He most definitely had not been a fish, he was just a bit clumsy. Eliot doubted Penny had been a much better kisser at that age. “Hush you I was sixteen and didn’t know what I was doing yet.”

Quentin, flushed and out of breath from his time in the seething mass of humanity known as the pit, also appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “Wait did he know that?” He exclaimed.

Eliot cringed. “No, he did not.”

For all that they didn’t get along, Penny and Quentin were shockingly in sync when they groaned in response. Or perhaps that was just his mind's need for all things dramatic. Quentin paled as Penny walked away. His exasperation was exhausting, but watching Penny as he walked away was far from the hardest thing he’d done today. “Oh god I’m pretty sure I know where this is going.” He complained.

“You’re probably right. Shall we continue?” Eliot grinned. Travel in his memoryscape was strange, but extremely intuitive. When he was ready to shift from one aspect of memory to the next, all he had to do was will it, though a little flair was never unwelcome. He raised his hands, and Quentin grabbed his arm gently. “Wait, but, they’re about to play the encore, _Eliot_!”

He paused to ruffle his friends hair, who pouted in response. The result was so adorable it should have been criminal. “I know my dear, but, the show must go on.” And with all the drama that only a theater kid turned magician could muster, he snapped his fingers, and they vanished.

\--x--

The quartet rematerialized in a motel room; two seconds had passed for them, but it had been closer to two hours for his young counterpart. The concert was, fortunately, long since over, and he and Dylan had leisurely made their way out of the pavilion, across the lawn, and to his beat up pickup truck that at sixteen he had _actually_ thought was kind of sexy. From there, the night had led to laughter, pretending he didn’t hate every sound that came out of the frontman’s mouth, late night burritos, a warm six pack, and now, making out on the bed in their motel room. He was on his knees, his jeans discarded before he even considered climbing onto the bed, halfway in Devin’s lap. His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the other man's belt. The young Eliot kept laughing nervously, but his partner was patient. He kept stroking Eliot’s shoulders, his forearms, kissing him in between chuckles and not pushing at all. 

“As you can see, I was pretty nervous, and even though we frankly had no chemistry, it was nice to be wanted for a while. That, and chemistry or not, he was hot." He narrated. Penny groaned yet again, arguing that he _‘did not need to see this shit man’_ , while Quentin rolled his eyes.

"He looks like the discount version of every guy who's ever been on the bachelor." His eyes lit up at Quentin’s expression, how his arms crossed over his chest and he glared forward from under his bangs. Real or not, it was nice to remember that Quentin could be a jealous little shit.

"Well baby gay Eliot thought he was hot okay? Indiana was slim pickings…"

Their attention returned to where Eliot and possibly-Ethan were making out. Charlton spoke up again, “I’m confused, is this supposed to be where the memory gets worse?” Eliot clapped a hand on his shoulder and chortled. “Don’t worry, it gets pretty humiliating in a bit.”

His young self finally got his partner’s belt off, before shifting back to remove his own shirt. He tried to be so cool, canting his hips forward as he moved his torso back, but all he really accomplished was losing his balance enough that he flopped halfway off of the lap that had been such a comfortable seat for the last ten minutes or so. As if flopping onto the mattress like a fish weren’t enough to throw off his fragile teenage self esteem, he also managed to scratch his forearm on a safety pin that came undone when he wasn’t paying attention. He yelped and winced back, twisting his neck to watch the thin pink line form on his triceps. His date, maybe his name was Brandon?, pulled back, also staring at the little red dots coming to the surface.

“Ope, y’alright Eliot? I think I’ve gotta bandaid somewhere, hang tight. Maybe we should show down a bit.” And he couldn’t help but smile at the memory. After years of black eyes and bruised arms being ignored by every teacher, neighbor, pastor, and classmate under the sun, it had been nice to have someone be genuinely worried about something as insignificant as a scratch. His young self laughed. He was trying to play it cool, but was brimming with excitement. “It’s fine, really,” he insisted, a little too firmly to his current ears. “I’m just nervous, I haven’t done this before, s’all.”

And well, maybe-Brandon just had to keep talking, and one thing led to another. _“I get it, I usually don’t hook up with people this fast either”_ , led to _“you don’t have to be nervous, we’ve got all night”_ , which led to _“alright, er, what have ya done before?”_ , which _of course_ led to _“wait, what do you mean by swapping handjobs after gym? Fuck, how old are you?”_

Eliot cringed, Quentin cringed, Penny and Charlton cringed, even the fucking fly on the wall probably cringed, as baby Eliot said “seventeen?” in a flimsy wavering voice. His date, as expected, reacted with all the grace and elegance one could expect of an upstanding tipsy Midwesterner.

That is to say, he yelled _“What?!?”_ and pushed Eliot the rest of the way off his lap.

Patrick- Eliot was _sure_ now that his name was Patrick- or maybe Alex?- panicked. Only that was an understatement; he freaked the fuck out. In hindsight, understandably so, since not only was he gay in Indiana, but he was gay in Indiana and about to have sex with a minor who he had given alcohol. So yeah, in retrospect, Eliot had a little more sympathy for the guy. His echo on the other hand, was a stunned mess as Alex-Justin- _whatever_ blustered back and forth across the room. He and his memory-hopping trio watched with morbid fascination as he ran his hands through his hair, muttering about _not wanting to go to jail_ and _who the hell even_ let _you in a bar kid?_ and _god damn it now I’ve gotta start IDing every twink_. 

In his panic, he grabbed Eliot’s shirt, tossed it at the teen, and shoved him towards the door. “Look, you’ve-you’ve got to go. I can’t- I just- look I never saw you kid, ‘kay?” and with that, he pushed Eliot outside. Any lingering guilt about forgetting his name vanished with his teenage self’s face behind the door.

“Did he just…” Penny asked after an awkward pause.

“Throw me out onto the street without my pants? Yes, yes he did.” Eliot deadpanned.

The quartet lingered another moment, Charlton shuffling awkwardly in place, before following his past, decked out in too much eyeliner and a mutilated t-shirt and plaid boxers, out the door. His memory was already halfway to the pay phone outside the concrete block that served as the motel lobby, illuminated by a single street light and the flickering neon of the vacancy sign overhead. When they reached him, his hands were shaking in spite of the warm August air. This had honestly been the scariest part of his night; so much more terrible than getting in a car with a complete stranger, accepting drinks that he hadn’t watched be poured, or losing his virginity in a seedy motel room, was calling home past midnight, hoping like hell that his dad would be passed out, too drunk to hear the phone ring. And in a rare twist of fate, luck had been on his side. One of his brothers had gotten to the phone first, likely having just gotten home from some wild senior party. A little pathetically, they watched as his younger self finally made out the words “Darrel? ’m- I’m kind of drunk. And outside Indianapolis. And just got kicked out of my motel room can you please come get me?” The last few words were rushed, but Darrel just sighed and said he would be there soon. He would take what he could get, Noah would have just left him to hitchhike.

“I don’t understand,” Charlton spoke after a few moments of watching his teen self shift back and forth under the streetlight, posturing as though he wasn’t ready to crawl out of his skin out of sheer humiliation. “I thought you said this was one of your worst memories, but, so much of what else we’ve seen as been so much worse. Why are we here?”

And Eliot, he wasn’t really sure. He hummed in acknowledgement as his memory adjusted his boxers for the tenth time in as many minutes. Penny’s complaints about being here were easily ignored, and Quentin had been kind enough to lean against his side and say nothing. “I’m not entirely certain,” Eliot eventually responded. “Being rejected sucked, especially after such a terrible show, but I guess sometimes you remember things as being the absolute worst, the end of the world for all intents and purposes. But in hindsight, they’re actually kind of funny, aren’t they?” He turned to his Fillorian companion, hoping for some agreement or grand insight. Charlton merely shrugged, just as lost as Eliot was. At least he wasn’t alone in not knowing.

In the strange sort of way that time flowed in his memoryscape, his brother appeared after only a few minutes, when in reality it had been nearly an hour and a half before he showed up with their dad’s ancient Chevy. As he turned with his ragtag team of memories, ready to return to the Cottage and their drawing board, he could hear Darrel’s laugh ringing out at his state of dress. “Shit kiddo, it looks like you almost had a good time. So, what’s her name?” he jeered.

He couldn’t have been prouder as he heard his echo smirk, and reply “honestly, I can’t remember.”

\--x--

**Author's Note:**

> Archive warning noted: This fic contains scenes that depict intimacy between a teenage Eliot and a college student who doesn't know he's underage. The actual intimacy doesn't go beyond kissing and light touches, and very few clothes come off before Eliot's date realizes he's a minor. No sexual contact occurs between the two, but it is implied that had this not come to light, it would have. Please proceed at your own comfort level.
> 
> \----------
> 
> My thoughts while writing this fic:
> 
> Honestly? Fuck Creed. Fuck this shitty ass band, I listened to their entire ‘Greatest Hits” while working on this fic. “Greatest Hits”. What a fucking joke. Guys all your songs sound exactly the same, they're just power chords and mumbling. JFC except for Bullets, that song just made me want to take a shank to my ears. Quentin baby I’m sorry I made you a fan of this shitty ass band, you deserve better baby and I love you, go listen to some Artist. Vs. Poet so at least you can be an indie emo shit with an ounce of taste kay?
> 
> Fuck Creed, and fuck this prompt, and fuck Rubickk and the entire Queliot discord for encouraging me to listen to this shitty fucking band. I love you all and you’re all incredible humans. Fuck you.
> 
> And non ironically, FUCK whoever that guy is on Youtube who put a Boston song in a Creed playlist. How DARE you put Boston’s “More than a Feeling” on this garbage tier dumpster fire of a catalogue. Shame on you.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this fic, and I hope you check out the rest of the Spectacular Summer of Shame collection!


End file.
